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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26515918">i carry your heart (i carry it in mine)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diefenbaker/pseuds/Diefenbaker'>Diefenbaker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry, Leavers Ball (Simon Snow), M/M, Oblivious Simon Snow, Pining, Roommates, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, Vignettes, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford Eighth Year, Watford Sixth Year, ee cummings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:42:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,690</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26515918</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diefenbaker/pseuds/Diefenbaker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> “You spent sixth year plotting.”<br/>“And you spent sixth year being an annoying prick.”<br/>“I spent sixth year looking for the White Hares.”<br/>“Same difference.” </em>
</p><p>The Leavers' Ball brings back lots of memories.<br/>Told in a series of vignettes and inspired by a poem by e.e. cummings, this story is all about kisses and blood and that weird feeling you get in your stomach whenever you think about your terrible roommate.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i carry your heart (i carry it in mine)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title and italicised poetry is borrowed from <em>i carry your heart with me</em> by e.e. cummings.</p><p>(I'm not a native speaker and still new to ao3, so please tell me if anything is wrong with this fic, so that I can fix it!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>Prologue</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p><em>i carry your heart with me (i carry it in</em> <em>my heart)</em></p><p>You cannot have Simon Snow without cinnamon.</p><p>I add cardamom and a tiny pinch of cayenne pepper, grinding them into a powder with the pestle. Snow's watching me, sitting on the polished wooden table in the middle of the school's kitchen, dangling his legs.</p><p>I feel like a proper witch when I stir honey into the steaming milk and finally add the cocoa and the spices. (I should have used a cauldron instead of a microwave.) I pour the steaming hot chocolate into two purple cups, Watford logo and all, and head over to him, handing him the cup with an unholy amount of whipped cream on top.</p><p>“Thanks.” Simon smiles, shrugs, and awkwardly pats the wooden tabletop beside him.</p><p>I hesitate for a second to look into his eyes. He's been crying, and his eyes are rimmed with red, looking more blue than ever.</p><p>Ebb hasn't been buried in the Catacombs like the Mage, but up on the hill, under a huge ancient pine tree. The baby goats like to climb onto her headstone – whoever gets to be on top of the stone is king of all goats.</p><p>I had all the rest of eighth year to get used to all this, but Simon didn't want to come back to Watford. Father let me keep the Jag here, so I could visit him at Penny's.</p><p>I still can't believe that he's here now, that he actually came to dance with me on my Leavers’ Ball. (He claims to have come for the sandwiches, but not even Snow likes sandwiches enough to put on a suit for them.)</p><p>“Are you okay?” I pull myself onto the table, and there we are, thighs touching, staring at a shelf stacked high with cans of pickles, baked beans, and marmite. I’m glad that we have the kitchen to ourselves.</p><p>“Mostly.” He interlaces our fingers, gently, and I can feel his ridiculous tail curl around my back as he leans into me. His voice is steady, but his wings aren't keeping still.</p><p>I nudge him with my shoulder and tilt my head towards his cup. “Afraid that I'll poison you?”</p><p>“Of course.” He breathes a slow laugh and takes a sip of the hot chocolate. “Wow. Baz. When did you learn this?”</p><p>“Sixth year.”</p><p>“You spent sixth year <em>plotting</em>.”</p><p>“And you spent sixth year being an annoying <em>prick</em>.”</p><p>“I spent sixth year looking for the White Hares.”</p><p>“Same difference.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>i.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p><em>i am never without it (anywhere</em> <em>i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done</em> <em>by only me is your doing, my darling)</em></p><p>Some days it feels as if we're tethered to each other. Wherever I am, Snow isn't far, following me like a lost puppy. (A bloodhound. Sniffing along the trail of dead rats and sophisticated smirks I leave for him to find.)</p><p>Most days, I blame the Crucible. Fucking lump of semi-sentient iron.</p><p>But sometimes, when I'm down in the Catacombs looking for something edible, or visiting Mother's tomb, and I can smell – and <em>hear</em> him, Crowley he's clumsier than a merwolf on land – searching for me, I allow myself to imagine that it is fate. Scientifically proven fate. Einstein named it <em>spukhafte</em> <em>Fernwirkung</em>, spooky action at a distance, but actually it's called Quantum Entanglement. (I've never read a Wikipedia article that seemed to describe my life so perfectly.) It's a phenomenon that occurs when a pair of particles interact in such a way, that one cannot be described without the other. Each action of one triggers a like reaction in the other, no matter how far apart they are.</p><p>Simon stares at me – I cannot look away.</p><p>Simon accuses me of plotting against him and humanity in general – I flip him off.</p><p>I push him down the stairs – he pushes me into the moat.</p><p>I feed him to a chimaera – he Goes Off.</p><p>It's just an endless list to prove that every atom of me is tangled with every atom of the Chosen One. Every golden hero needs a nemesis. Every supermassive black hole needs a super nova.</p><p>Fucking Crucible.</p><p><br/>
<strong>ii.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p><em>i fear</em> <em>no fate</em></p><p>Penny thinks I should do more research. She says there's a reason why <strong><em>Know Thy Enemy </em></strong>is still a very popular spell. I've made her try it on Baz. I didn't dare to do it myself. I don't want to accidentally kill my archenemy, and these days, most of my spells go wrong. But when Penny cast it, nothing happened. Probably because he isn't her enemy, she says. (He's mine, and mine only.)</p><p>Agatha thinks I should be more careful. “I can't wear a helmet when I'm fighting Dark Creatures sent by the Humdrum,” I told her. She asked me why not, and I shrugged. Maybe I should wear a helmet. One with integrated earmuffs, so I wouldn't have to hear Baz's laughter.</p><p>I think when push comes to shove – that is, when I'm suddenly facing an angry giant hare, or a venomous crested woodfoul, or a fluttering of flibbertigibbets – there's nothing I can do but summon my sword, stand tall, and not give an inch. My magic will do the rest. I'm not afraid of monsters. (But I'm afraid that I'll hurt someone, eventually.)</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>iii.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>(for you are my fate, my sweet)</em>
</p><p>It's weird – all my school years are defined by worrying and fighting and defending myself and my friends. There's always a big moment, a climax, towards which the whole year is racing.</p><p>But whenever I need something to remind me whether all the blood and the tears are worth it, I think of the long hours Penny and I spend on the Great Lawn. Watford has the greenest, most perfect grass for picnics and there's no better combination than scones, a sunny afternoon and your best friend in the whole world.</p><p>Lying there, with Penny's head on my stomach, so that I can feel her words vibrate through my body, we talk about the future. We'll have a flat together, with a million books (for Penny) and a couch (for me), and we'll do whatever we want to do.</p><p>No Humdrum.</p><p>No Trixie. (Penny can't wait.)</p><p>No Baz. I can't imagine life without Baz. A life that is neither Watford, nor a foster home. He's always been there – teasing me, hissing insults behind my back, finding ways to circumvent the Anathema, eternally plotting. I fall asleep to his breaths, I wake up to his curses, I watch him, I hate him, I can't imagine my life without him in all his flawless annoying undead glory. (It's pathetic. I know.)</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>iv.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>i want</em><br/>
<em>no world</em>
</p><p>I lean my head against the cool stone walls. Let the icy surface seep into my skin, my brain, my burning thoughts. I'd light a cigarette to clear my head, but with all the dust filling the catacombs everything would go up in flames in seconds. I'd go up in flames. (Maybe not the worst scenario.)</p><p>I'm so tired of sitting in classrooms, so tired of walking through corridors and hallways, knowing that there's only one person waiting. Simon Snow: Waiting to rid the world of me, ready to make it a better place, with one less monster.</p><p>
  <em>(for beautiful you are my world, my true)</em>
</p><p>I wouldn't even mind, I think. Some nights it's the only thing that fills my dreams. Simon Snow, poised above me, apples and cinnamon and the iron smell of my own blood filling the air. Sunlight streaming through gothic windows, catching in his golden hair, a halo for a hero. With bloodstained hands I'd grab the ugly collar of his uniform, pull him down to me and then – I'd kiss him. The sword hilt protruding from my chest wouldn't be in the way. Maybe I'd bite him, gently. Dig my fangs into his lower lip. (Because I'm disturbed.) (Because he'd have all of vampiric eternity to regret killing me.) And every twenty years, when the Veil is lifting, I'd come back and kiss him, again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>v.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant</em>
</p><p>The drawbridge is up, and I don't get it. There's absolutely no reason for Baz to lure me outside after curfew.</p><p>At first, I was sure that the note was from Agatha, it was her handwriting, and it sounded exactly like her. But it's late, and dark, and there definitely isn't any reason for Agatha to ask me to come outside after curfew. So I'm going for the obvious and assume this is Baz's doing.</p><p>The Mage banished all electronic devices after last year's incident with the internet trolls, and although the Families threatened to sue him, he got through with it. I’ve never had a phone anyways. All the birds have gone wherever they go to sleep, so I can't cast <strong><em>A little bird told me. </em></strong>Besides, I forgot my wand in our room.</p><p>I sit down with my back to the big willow guarding the drawbridge and I must have fallen asleep at some point, because it's the merwolves’ howling that wakes me up.</p><p>The moon is out, casting blue and black shadows across the lawn. The water in the moat is churning with flickering reflections and the merwolves quicksilver fur and scales. They are howling and barking and growling at something. I stand up, with my legs half-asleep and tingling, and there he is. Using a long pole to direct the boat across the moat, Baz is like moonlight grown solid. Grey uniform and black hair slicked back; skin so pale it seems almost translucent. There's a snarl on his lips as he lifts his wand towards the merwolves, hissing out a spell with an expression that I always thought was reserved for me: Anger and arrogance and something that might be loneliness, but eventually (when I get close enough) will turn out to be a carefully prepared insult.</p><p>He's on his way towards me. I won't wait for him as if he's cast <strong><em>damsel in distress </em></strong>on me. I'm the Chosen One and I decide when and where to meet my destiny. My magic lashes at the merwolves, making them shy away from me as I wade into the water.</p><p><br/>
<strong>vi.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>and whatever a sun will always sing is you</em>
</p><p>I wake up because light is colouring my dreams red through my eyelids.</p><p>I swear if Snow has cast <strong><em>No rest for the wicked! </em></strong>on me, I'll rip his throat out. It wouldn't even be very original, it's what I did in third year to him all the time. (Spelling him awake. Not painfully removing essential body parts.)</p><p>I force myself to open my eyes and try to gather all the warmth I can from the three layers of blankets on top of me as I look around.</p><p>Snow has thrown open the curtains. Which explains the sunlight. The <em>git</em>.</p><p>He's standing there, framed by pale early morning sunrays, with his bare back turned to me, and for a fraction of a second I allow myself to imagine what it would feel like to kiss the tiny mole on his neck. To wrap my arms around him. To bury my face in his bronze curls. He's gold and warmth and everything beautiful.</p><p>A small bird, a blue tit, lands on the windowsill and flutters to his shoulder, chirping into his ear. That's pretty much the only thing the Mage is useful for: distracting me from my hopeless daydreams. (Nothing is more disturbing than hearing the Mage's voice come from a tiny bird's beak.)</p><p>“Thank Merlin, he's is finally sending you a personal bird to help you with getting dressed, Cinderella.” My words come out hoarse and still one third asleep.</p><p>Snow flinches and I try to tell myself that I'll make it through the day.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>vii.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>here is the deepest secret nobody knows</em>
</p><p>I'm in love with him. Hopelessly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>viii.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p><em>(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud</em> <em>and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows</em> <em>higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)</em></p><p>I don't know what I am. Hopeless, I guess.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>ix.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart</em>
</p><p>Watching him perform a spell is like witnessing an accident. I want to look away, but I can't.</p><p>The spell either doesn't work at all or it threatens to blow up the planet.</p><p>It's pathetic, really. How Snow doesn't remember how to hold his wand. How my whole being strains to be closer to him.</p><p>So, basically just another Thursday morning with the Minotaur, a class full of morons and too much apple-cheeked heroism.</p><p>I always hoped that I'd get used to it. His magic, that is. And in some ways, I did; I don't really notice that our room smells like a campfire anymore. I managed to ignore the fainting girls in his wake. I stopped arguing with his insufferable sidekick. (Actually, I only stopped doing so in my free time. During lessons, Magickal Arguments With Bunce are inevitable and also the only thing keeping me awake.)</p><p>I always thought the Mage was stupid. (Period.) But especially stupid for claiming Simon was the Chosen One when it so obviously <em>couldn't</em> be him. As far as I knew, people were chosen for their skills.  Snow doesn't have any skills. No skills as a mage, that is. He doesn't know anything about words, about cadence and vowel shift, about misspelling and metre. Merlin and Morgan, he doesn't even <em>care</em> about words. (Not like <em>I </em>do.)</p><p>I always thought Snow was the Worst Chosen One Ever Chosen because he doesn't understand magic.</p><p>So I tried to feed him to the chimaera. Because I'm desperate. Because he deserves it. Because even chimaeras need to eat, I guess.</p><p>And then several things went wrong, and I yelled at him, and he was shouting at me, and then the chimaera decided to have two terrified schoolboys for a snack.</p><p>He Went Off and I realised that he doesn't need to <em>understand</em> magic.</p><p>He <em>is</em> magic.</p><p>He is the eye of the storm that's devastating the world. (My world.)</p><p>He is magic and it's irresistible.</p><p>He is burning as bright as the stars and I have forgotten that I'm flammable.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Epilogue</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)</em>
</p><p>The hot chocolate tastes of cinnamon and worry.</p><p>I don't want Baz to be worried. Not about his parents or Fiona, not about Dev and Niall and Trixie gossiping, and not about me. Especially not about me. Coming back to Watford was good. Well, maybe not good, but probably the right decision. (Definitely the right decision. Baz looks like he's dressed to kill and Watford shines with magic and memories, both happy and terrible. It's not the same without the Mage, and without Ebb, but Penny always says that change is good.) (And she's right, of course.)</p><p>Baz looks at me and there's a line of worry between his grey eyes. I want to tell him that it's okay, that I'll be okay as long as he's here, with me. But words aren't exactly my strength.</p><p>So I go for what I always did when I didn't know what to say to Baz. It worked during sixth year, it'll work now.</p><p>I shove him. (Gently.) Send furniture flying. (Accidentally.)</p><p>He's lying on the table, half propped up on his elbows, one enviably perfect eyebrow raised. I'm hovering above him, and it's kind of uncomfortable and terribly cliché to be on the table, and hopefully no one will come into the kitchen, and –</p><p>Baz reaches up, tilts his head <em>just so</em>, and kisses me. His fingertips are cool against my neck, holding me close, closer. I'm ruining his perfectly starched shirt with my grip, and the spiky tips of my invisible wings keep pulling at his hair, and his mug is shattering on the floor and we don't even flinch because we're so caught up in each other's lips.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was a bit more experimental than my other Carry On fics, so I hope you enjoyed it!<br/>Leave me a comment and let me know what you think?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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